


someone is stealing you at night

by taddymasonLLC



Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-30
Updated: 2017-09-30
Packaged: 2019-01-07 03:02:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12224394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taddymasonLLC/pseuds/taddymasonLLC
Summary: Five times Morty lost his virginity.  Five times Rick made him forget.





	someone is stealing you at night

Morty used to try to be cool.  

“I mean, haha, what even is virginity anyway, right, Rick?  I-i-it’s just a human social construct, right, I, I, I mean who am I to say, who is anyone to say that I’m, or uh, or you, or anyone else is a virgin, right?”  He leaned back in the seat of the space ship and put his arms behind his head, as if proud of himself, tilting his head up towards Rick.  (Maybe he had wanted praise for this.  He had wanted praise for so much.)

“Ye-AUGH-ah, Morty, you’re right,” Rick had said, and a thrill went up Morty’s spine with the magic words  _you’re right_.  “Who, who, who is to say if virginity is the first time we fuck someone, or someone fucks us.  Who is to say if virginity is fumbling your dick inside some girl in, in, in some gas station bathroom, or, or, or taking some guy’s huge load in your mouth after gym class when it’s just the two of you in the locker room, and some of his jizz gets in your eye.”

“R-Rick--”

“--Or, I don’t know, Morty, maybe losing your virginity is fucking your best friend’s mom while her husband jerks off holding a camera in the corner, or, or maybe it’s not even human, Morty!”

“Please, Rick, I--”

“--Maybe it’s finding yourself balls deep in some Shlimshlam from Gorblax 9, Morty!  They don’t even have a central nervous system, they’re, they’re, they’re basically ten thousand vaginas, and you just hope that you found the one that isn’t also it’s mouth--”

“--I get it!  I, I, I get it Rick.  Jesus, okay, fine.”

“Heh.”  Rick pulled the wheel to turn the nose of the ship straight up and accelerate roughly fifteen parsecs in a nanosecond.  “Spoken like a true virgin, Morty.”

“Shut up, Rick,” Morty said, arms coming down and hands tugging down at his shirt a little, adjusting in his seat.

“Are you  _aroused_ right now?” Rick laughs so hard he chokes on his own spit. “Was-was-was it the one thousand vaginas or the hotwife cuckolding?  Oh my God, don’t look at me like that, Morty, I’m not the one trying to hide his boner right now.  God, I bet you’re a little freak, aren’t you?”

“I wanna go home,” Morty said.

“Ah,” Rick replied. “Home.”

  
  


**BLUE VIAL - HALF_VIRGINITY_GABLOOPIS**

 

“ _Rick_ ,” Morty says, pressing himself against the large double doors of the guest suite the aliens had lead them to.  He spies a luxurious four-poster bed for two over Rick’s shoulder and  _fuck, fuck, shit, he’s totally right!_ “Rick, they think we’re  _together_.”

“Yeah, obviously,” Rick replies, rolling his eyes and taking a pen-like device from the inside pocket of his coat.  It looks like the kind of pen with multi-colored tabs around the side for different inks to write with.

“ _No_ , Rick, I mean like,  _together_ -together,” Morty continues, looking up at the ornately-decorated ceiling, the corners and crown moulding, the big windows that overlook the gorgeous alien city and beautiful alien horizon with ice-capped mountains and twin suns.  He lowers his voice to say, “they think we’re  _fucking_ , Rick.”

“ _Yeah, obviously_ ,” Rick says again, but with a little more heat this time.  He clicks a few of the tabs, and a wave rushes through the room invisible, passing right through Morty’s chest and into the door.  “Jesus Christ, I let you talk any longer without this thing and you would’ve gotten us killed, you dumb little shit.  Silencer by the way.” He shakes it for emphasis before putting it back in his pocket. “If you think they aren’t monitoring us right now, I would say you’re painfully naive and would probably deserve whatever awful death they have in store for us.  But now they can just see us, Morty.  Not hear us.”

“Rick you  _introduced me_ as your grandson!  How can they think-- how can they--”

“It’s a planet that values inbred reproduction, Morty,” Rick says, going over to the bed.  He puts his palm on the mattress and pushes down a few times to test it before jumping back onto it, immediately spreading his arms and falling into the cocoon of fluffy pillows.  “Everyone here is in an incestuous relationship.  Those two people sacrificed for the harvest on our arrival?  Not related and caught fucking each other.  H-h-honestly, how you missed that is beyond me, Morty.”

“I don’t speak Gabloopian, Rick, I don’t know what they’re talking about!” Morty says, gesturing widely with his arms.

“The fact that you’re hung up on the incest but not the harvest sacrifice in an otherwise advanced society says a lot about your character, Morty,” Rick says, rolling onto his hip so he can pull out his flask.  He unscrews the cap and takes a big pull.  “But I get it, I mean, we’re gonna have to fuck to get out of here.”

“ _What_ ,” Morty says, voice catching on the highest pitch.  

“Ugh, don’t worry,” Rick replies, waving his other hand in the air dismissively.  “These people, people, aliens, these uh, these Gabloopians, Morty?  No understanding of how human sexual intercourse works, I, I can probably just get away with jerking you off.”

“ _No,_ ” Morty shrieks.  “Can’t you just tell them that uh, that we’re, we’re one of those couples that has been together so long that we don’t really have sex anymore?”

“Wow, wonder where you heard about that from,” Rick says, pushing himself up from the mountain of pillows.

“Stop it, Rick, there has to be something,” Morty says, arms wrapped around himself, anxiously tugging at his own sleeves.  “Maybe, maybe we’re just, you know, we aren’t having sex because we’re fighting right now and I’m mad at you.”

“Gabloopians fuck out their aggression, Morty, they wouldn’t understand.  And as they say, uh, when it Rome.”

Morty considers his options: Rick had to give up his portal gun when they were granted access to the Capital’s Palace, so they can’t just bail right this second; he could maybe tie together the bed sheets and make a break for it and hide in the royal gardens foraging alien berries and rodents until Rick eventually came to save him; he could let his grandpa jerk him off once, and they could never, ever talk about it again.  

“Morty, if it makes you feel any better, I, I can make you forget it ever happened,” Rick says.  He looks bored, which Morty can’t fathom  _how_ , but add it to the list of things he can’t fathom about Rick.  

“You can do that?” Morty asks weakly.  He feels like he’s giving up.  

“Yeah, yeah, of course, little buddy, of course I can.  You let me jerk you off for the alien overlord that’s definitely watching us, I will make you forget it ever happened.  Some day, some girl is gonna give you some terrible handjob and blow you with too much teeth, and it’ll feel like the first time, it’ll be great for you, I’m sure.”

“Well you don’t have to be an asshole about it, Rick,” Morty says, shifting from foot to foot.  

“C’mere,” Rick says, patting next to him on the bed.  Morty does, hesitant and hoping the anger shows on his face.  “Honestly, Morty, like worst thing I’ve ever done to you.  You’re the one getting the happy ending here.  Now take your pants off.”  

Morty’s hands shake when he goes for the button.  Rick sighs, rolls his eyes, and knocks them out of the way and does it for him, pushes his jeans down and paws at the soft skin of his stomach underneath his t-shirt.

“You wanna do this standing there, or you wanna get comfortable?  This doesn’t have to be, doesn’t have to be torture, Morty, Jesus Christ,” Rick says.  He scoots back and opens his legs so there’s room for Morty to sit between them however he likes.  “I’m not gonna hurt you, Morty.  I’ll take care of you.  Come on, you’re okay.”

Morty slides onto the bed, back facing Rick, and Rick pulls him by the chest so they’re flush together, Morty’s ass near Rick’s crotch.  He shudders as Rick slides his right hand down the inside of Morty’s thigh, along the inseam of his briefs, before sliding it back up where Morty is embarrassingly already at half chub.  He’s not eager, he tries to rationalize, it’s just his growing body, it does this for anyone, anything.  One time he masturbated to a particularly tantalizing coffee stain left on the kitchen table.  

“Grandpa’s gonna take care of you,” Rick murmurs into his ear, his breath hot with alcohol, wet against Morty’s neck.  Morty keens into it despite himself, lets his arch back, lets Rick take him in his hand through the thin cotton of his underwear and stroke him sluggish slow like a promise.  “You’re gonna be okay, Morty, I’ve got you.”

The problem isn’t that it’s Rick, or it isn’t the biggest problem, anyway-- the biggest problem is how easy it is, how freely Morty finds himself folding under Rick’s touch and voice and commands.  The biggest problem is that the suns shine in through translucent curtains and make the entire room glow, and Rick is the most solid, realest thing he knows, now more than ever, and it feels good to have someone else touch him.  His breath catches in his throat.

“You ever done this with anybody, Morty?” Rick asks, his hand dipping underneath Morty’s waistband and taking him in his warm, dry palm.  Morty thrusts up, tries to bite back the noise crawling out of his chest, leans back and lets his head rest on Rick’s shoulder, eyes closed.

“You know I haven’t,” he says.  “You just said so.”

Rick makes a considering noise, takes his hand out of Morty’s briefs quickly to lick his palm, then resumes what he was doing.  His thick spit makes Morty’s dick squelch as he slides his grip over the head and down the shaft in rough, hot, tight circles.  It makes Morty pant, and it makes Morty cry.

“Well, I’m sorry that I couldn’t be better, considering the circumstances,” Rick says.  His mouth is right against Morty’s jaw, just barely there, and his other hand is working its way up Morty’s stomach, tracing abstract patterns below his solar plexus.  “You want me to hurry up?”

Morty does and he doesn’t.  He wants to get off, and he wants to be touched like this forever.  He never wants this to end, and he wants it over and he wants to forget it ever happened.  He never wants to know this ever again, and he wants it for the rest of his life.  

“Please,” he says, hands searching for Rick’s own legs, for something to hold onto as he clumsily fucks up into Rick’s hand.  “Please.”

“‘Please’ what, Morty?” Rick asks, grip going  _shlick shlick shlick_ as it comes up and over his head, makes his balls tight, makes salty pre-come leak from his head all over Rick’s fingers.

“Get me off,” Morty whines.  “Please, get me off, Rick.”

Rick jerks him off hard and quick until Morty is spilling down his wrist, come catching in small patches on his shirt.  He’s breathing heavy and little  _huhs_ escape his mouth as his dick twitches into Rick’s hold.  

“You okay?” Rick asks, and Morty doesn’t respond, and Rick rubs soothing circles against his soft stomach with peach fuzz running up the belly button.  “I got you, Morty, I got you.  I got you.  You did so, so good.”  
  
  


**BLUE VIAL - SEX_POLLEN_SPORES_V2.0**

 

“Whatever you do, Morty, don’t let the spores erupt in your face,” Rick says behind him right as the spores erupt in his face.  

“Oh, geez, Rick, fuck!” Morty yells, clawing at his own face.  Whatever Rick was having him pick has erupted all over his face, sticky and thick, clinging to his eyelashes and his cheeks.  “What the fuck is this!”

“Doesn’t really matter, Morty.  At this point, you’re fucked.  You-you-you just got doused with some serious sex pollen.  You know those rodents that fuck until their dicks disintegrate?  The spores of this plant kind of incite the same reaction.”

“ _What!_ ” Morty says.  His body is getting hot.  It rushes up his neck to his ears.  “Why were we even trying to pick this in the first place!”

“Because it prolongs life if you can harvest it before the spores release, idiot!” Rick replies, waving his arms from a safe distance away.  

“But you knew this was a possibility before sending  _me_ down to harvest them for you?” Morty cries back.  His dick throbs.  His thighs ache.  His body wants.  

“Well, I mean, yeah,” Rick replies easily.  “You know what one of those plants would do to an old man, Morty?  Think, think, think of Viagra commercials and how they tell you to go to the hospital if your erection lasts longer than four hours, and then times that by a thousand.”

Morty just moans, collapsing to the wet dirt underneath him, getting a fistful of it to try and satiate every and all animal instinct suddenly pulsing through him.  He wants to fuck.  He wants to be fucked.  He wants every conceivable hole of his stuffed and filled.  He wants his dick torn off in a vice.  

“Hey,” Rick says.  Is he far away?  Is he close by, are those his hands around Morty’s wrists, sliding under his thighs to pick him up.  “Hey, hey, how far can you make it?”

“I’m dying,” Morty says into Rick’s shoulder, and Rick laughs.

“Poor baby,” he replies, and  _baby,_ oh.

When Morty jerks off, his mind goes weird places.  He likes tits, likes big tits and big areolas, likes watching them bounce and the way they look greasy sandwiching a dick in the porn he desperately clicks through with the attention span of a gnat, but he also likes the noises guys make, likes the grunts and stuttered, shaky sounds that they can’t keep to themselves when they’re coming all over someone’s face in thick, gooey stripes.  He watches porn where students get fucked by their teachers and where girls get spanked and punished and guys come on their bright red asses and where old men with beer guts grunt into the backs of boy’s necks who look barely legal and moan and the boys say  _okay, okay, please_.

He tries not to think about it outside of it, outside of wiping the spunk off his hand with a dirty sock and looking at the picture of Jessica he has on the inside of his english binder to remind himself he’s normal, and whatever this thing is that makes him go to weird, ugly places so he can get off is a temporary symptom of stressful conditions and it doesn’t say anything about  _him_.

“Poor baby,” Rick says, and Morty feels the lies he’s been telling himself weigh down on his shoulders as he fucks into the ground and thinks about old men with beer guts and the boys they fuck face down into ratty family sofas.

He hates this.

“Jesus,” Rick continues, and his thumbs rub up the lean muscle of Morty’s thighs where he’s picked him up.  “You’re still so small.”  

It stokes the angry fire already burning in his chest.  He’s fourteen, he’s practically an adult.  He says this out loud, defiant.  

“God, Morty, you’re making this worse than it already is,” Rick says. Morty feels so hot, hotter than he does anywhere else where Rick touches him, where fabric sticks to his sweaty skin.  Rick’s hands on him, their chests together?  It feels wrong, but it also feels powerful.  It feels like winning something Morty didn’t know was there to win.  It feels like being right, and the best, and being called  _baby_ ; like something worth caring for.  

Morty doesn’t know anything worse than the urgent desire and need to fuck his own grandpa.  “What?”

“You wanna fuck me, right?” Rick says, and it comes out so easily.  “I can’t fuck you.  You’re too small.”

 _He just wants me to live_ , one part of Morty’s brain says, while the other part says,  _yes yes yes yes yes please please please please please._

It’s conflicting.  

What is it like to fuck someone you shouldn’t want to fuck? 

It isn’t the first time Morty’s been here.  It isn’t the first time that Morty’s considered what Rick’s hard, lean body would feel like against his own.  It isn’t the first time that Morty has thought about Rick’s booze breath in his face, stinging his eyes, loving him the only way he knows with sweet, awful, mean nothings that Morty craves to feel like something.  

It wouldn’t be the first time he’s thought of an old man the other way around, letting the hot, young something lose it into his tight ass, eyelids clenched together with determination.  It wouldn’t be the first time he’s thought about being here.  He’s beyond helping where certain things are concerned.  

“Don’t you need, ah,” Morty says, stutters, “d-d-don’t you need, need, help?  Prep.”

“Morty, I’m roughly eighty-something in human years,” Rick says.  “Do you want to know what my human body has seen and is capable of?”

“No,” Morty answers honestly.  “I ju-ju-just wanna, just wanna, God!  Fuck.”

How do you say your desperation out loud?  How do you tell your grandpa you want to fuck him, want to bury yourself in him, that this isn’t the first time you thought about it?  

He finds out he doesn’t have to.  Rick laughs, says  _yeah._ Rick carries him to a darker part of the grove and lets Morty grind into his hip. Rick lays them both down on a hard patch of land, with twigs and thistles and the hard, dead skins of whatever plant they were hunting rotting beneath them.  Rick sets him down and then sits next to him.  He doesn’t act surprised in the odd two seconds it takes for Morty to re-attach himself, to bury his face in the hollow of Rick’s collarbone, to nose at the dip and mutter  _I need, I need_ , while his hands go for the button and zip of Rick’s trousers.  

“You’re sure?” Morty asks.  “I can?”

“I mean, you  _will_ die if you don’t,” Rick says, and that’s all Morty needs to hear to fumble with both of their pants, to get them tangled as he tries to work Rick’s pants off and his own pants down and just fuck him desperately.  

Morty comes and comes and comes.  It’s like breathing, like oxygen, the need to fuck and come and mark his territory.  Rick smooths his hair back and takes it and makes the kind of noises that Morty has always sought out on the internet, the most desperate, the least controlled, the rumble of someone’s chest coming through their throat like they could catch it-- if only Rick’s hands weren’t busy running down from his scalp to his ass and working it up and down his dick, pinching behind his knees, sliding up to his chest and grazing his nipples like he was trying to be fucking helpful or something.  

“Make it stop, Rick,” Morty begs, after coming for a fifth time.  He’s tired.  It’s like a second of cognizance cutting him diagonally and re-orienting him.  

“Yeah,” Rick says.  He pulls out a gun, something different, something with two eyeholes, and

  
  


**RED VIAL - JACQUELINE**

 

It’s not like having all of his toxins removed means he forgets that part of himself.  Morty is aware of it like he was aware of his parent’s marriage falling apart, hearing their muted fighting through the walls at night.  It feels the same.  

Knowing what the worst part of himself is and having it removed doesn’t make him better.  It just creates a void, and he pursues filling it relentlessly.  He becomes a stock broker.  He gets a penthouse in the West Village.  He meets Jacqueline and lets her take his virginity, pussy wet and warm around his dick in a way that still almost punches the wind out of even the best version of himself on first contact.  

If I work enough, If I fuck enough, he asks himself, will that feed the black hole that the toxins left behind?  Things like a good job and praise and a girlfriend like Jacqueline are things he  _wants_ to want, but there’s no use trying to outrun a truth that lived inside him for a very long time.  Being the person he’s always wished he could be doesn’t take away the person he always genuinely was.  It doesn’t make him forget.  

Jacqueline fucks him and calls him her soulmate, and he feels ready to crumble around the parts of himself that he lost.

“So, Morty,” Rick drawls afterwards, flying him and Jessica back home.  Jessica’s asleep in the back seat passed out, looking exhausted from the weeks she spent fielding Rick’s drunk dialing.  Morty frowns at her reflection in the rearview mirror.  “You and that, that, that redhead, huh?  She make a man out of you?”

Morty feels like a child more than ever in the wake of everything, hyper aware of his weaknesses and ugly, awful needs.  

“Yeah,” he says anyway.  “She uh, she sure did, Rick.”

“So, s-s-so it was good then?  She treat you right?” Rick asks.  He sounds uninterested, but Morty recognizes this as a game they both play; seeing who stumbles and has all their emotions fall out of their pockets first, who lets something genuine slip into interaction first.  Rick cares.  Rick  _cares_.  That’s the worst part.  

“It was okay,” Morty admits, because it was.  It wasn’t what he wanted, and it wasn’t what he needs, but that didn’t mean it was bad.  

“Well, that’s reason enough,” Rick says. “You can excuse an old man for his petty, jealous behavior, can’t you, Morty?”

“What?” Morty asks, and he looks away from Jessica and over to Rick, who is holding a device in his hand with two eyeholes, and then there’s a flash and

  


 

**PURPLE VIAL - SOME_BITCH_IDK**

 

“I want our first time to be special, Morty,” Sandy says.  She’s in Morty’s AP Chemistry class, and she’s been meeting him at his locker for kisses every day for the past week, passing him notes and making out with him in the car Jerry bought for him in the fall.  She’s really cool.  Morty likes her a lot.

“Me too,” he says.  It’s fourth period and without Rick intruding and whisking him away, he’s free to skip English and sit with Sandy in the back of his car and make out in the parking lot until he’s embarrassingly half hard and dry-humping her thigh.  

“I want it to be intense,” Sandy says into his mouth.  She tastes like cherry chapstick and cinnamon gum.  

“Intense,” Morty agrees, “yeah.”

“Like, have you ever, you know,” Sandy says, breathlessly, “have you ever had a rape fantasy?”

“Wh-what?” Morty asks, pushing himself up and staring at her with his swollen, kissed-at mouth open with surprise.

Here’s the thing: the answer is yes.  Morty has.  

His therapist tells him it’s a thing.  Survivors of trauma can sexualize and fetishize their trauma and fetishize about a similar situation where they can regain control.  He lets it comfort him on most nights when he’s got his dick in his fist, even if he’s too chickenshit to say out loud exactly what shape those fantasies take.

Mostly when he jerks off, he thinks about being on top of Rick, choking him so hard his face turns purple and fucking deep into him, fucking him hard enough his old bones come apart.  He dreams of being the one who gets to ruin someone, watching Rick become stone-eyed and miserable.  He imagines holding Rick’s unconscious head by his hair and angrily coming across his nose and mouth, and feeling like he’s won something.  

“Yeah,” he says, unsure out loud about the realest, surest part of him.  “Sure.”

Sandy bats her thick eyelashes at him and traces a finger down to where his dick is pressing against his fly.  “Cool, I mean.  I’ve just always wanted to hold a guy down and have them fight back when I ride them.”

“Oh,” Morty says, because that’s not really-- he didn’t expect that, but it’s cool.  He’s been the unwitting victim of so much at this point, he’s kind of totally okay with a hot girl holding him down and taking what she needs out of play.  He can work with those conditions.  “Yeah, that’s, th-that sounds like it could be uh, you know, special.”

“Wow, Morty,” she whispers in his ear.  He loves that her voice naturally has a laugh underscoring it.  “You’re something else.”

Later, when they actually go for it, they get far enough that she’s sucked his dick for a while and zip tied his hands behind his back.  His body thrives on the threat, he tries not to realize.  He’s conditioned to calculate five ways out minimum if he needs them.

Sandy has a rubber knife.  She crawls, knees working their way up his legs until she’s posed over his angry red dick with the dull blade pressed to his neck, and presses a kiss to his chest as he writhes beneath her.  

“ _Frasier_ ,” he says. “ _Frasier, Frasier, Frasier._ ”

“What?” Sandy says, and she pulls the knife away from his neck and puts it directly to his side.  She’s still straddling his hips, his dick poking at her slit through her panties.

“ _Frasier_ ,” he repeats.  It’s the safe word they decided on.  

“What’s going on, Morty?” she asks, and she seems so genuinely confused.  He had agreed to this.  He was supposed to be okay.

But with a blade against his neck, he doesn’t think about the dozen or so people who have held him hostage, who have threatened to flay him alive; he thinks about his grandpa crawling into his bed late one night when he was fourteen and holding one of Beth’s carving knives to his neck and asking,  _are you a simulation? Are you?_

“I can’t do the knife,” Morty says.  He remembers Rick pressing his entire body against him, passing out and drooling through his sleep shirt with a knife in his hand, being half hard the entire time because his body didn’t know how to react, and at the time he had wanted so much from Rick, so many things he didn’t know how to define until they slowly, painfully translated into something awful and unspeakable.

“Oh,” Sandy says.  "Do you want to talk about it?

"No," Morty replies.

He leaves soon after that.  Frustated, ashamed of himself, unable to look Sandy in the eyes as he shrugs his shirt back on in the doorway of her bedroom.   

“Hey, killer,” Rick says over his shoulder when he comes into the garage.  “How’d it go?”

Morty can’t reply.  He hates feeling like a copy of a person sometimes, someone who was taken apart and put back together wrong; dysfunctional.  His eyes are red from crying like a pathetic loser the entire drive home.  

“Hey,” Rick says again.  He’s right in front of Morty now.  His hands are on Morty’s face, forcing him to look up, and they’re nice and cold against his tear-swollen cheeks.  It’s hard sometimes remembering that Rick does know how to be tender, he just chooses not to be.  “What happened?”

Morty just shakes his head.  “I want to forget,” he manages.

Rick nods. “Okay.  I can do that.”

  


 

**RED VIAL - TAXES_1964_DONOTTRANSMIT**

 

They’ve been circling around each other closer and closer lately, two forces sure to crash together in some awful, chaotic way (again. Again and again and again and again), and then Morty gets drunk, and he gets horny, and he climbs into Rick’s lap.  Rick shouldn’t be letting this happen, but he’s drunk too.  He’s drunker than he is most nights, because he saw Morty getting drunk, and it was too much, and this is even more, but at least he’s muted any sense of shame he still feels.  

“Always wanted,” Morty slurs, mouth slippery against Rick’s neck as he rolls his hips like some cheap hotel room hookers Rick has known, and it’s too, too much.  

Morty makes Rick come in his fucking pants.

“Did you just--oh my God,” Morty says, before he starts laughing, wasted little hiccups tumbling out of his mouth.  

It’s possible that Morty won’t remember this one on his own, but just in case, Rick stumbles to the garage to go get his gun.  

  



End file.
